


take me by the hand and tell me you would take me anywhere

by hihoplastic



Series: The Worst Witch Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 18:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13794051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: She closes her eyes and waits, tries to smooth her face into something impassive—and then there’s a hand in hers, cold and soft. Her eyes fly open and she sees the faint outline of a girl before they both transfer, just as the deputy rounds the corner.or,Five times Hecate and Pippa hold hands





	take me by the hand and tell me you would take me anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> \- for @matildaswan, who requested, and i quote, "HECATE AND PIPPA MAFKN HOLDING HANDS PLS" <3  
> \- thank you to @raumolirien as always for the beta! ♥  
> \- title from tegan and sara's 'take me anywhere'

_i._

Pippa knows she shouldn’t be here. The restricted section of the library is for teachers only, but she hadn’t been able to resist—there are so many books, on so many topics she’s never even dreamed of learning about—strange plants and dangerous potions, historical texts and ancient spells; there’s even an entire section devoted to magical wands, and Pippa barely resists the urge to brush her fingers over the spines, certain there’s an enchantment over them. She wants to read something - anything - but she’s too overwhelmed to choose.

And then there are voices—the deputy head and the spell science mistress, she thinks—and Pippa panics. Looks around for someplace to hide. It’s dark, the pale moon through the window the only source of light, but when she turns her foot bumps a stack of books on the floor and they tumble to the ground.

“Who’s there?”

Looking around frantically, she tries to determine where she can go, but the footsteps are too close, and she knows she’ll never make it to the door. She supposes she could pretend to be sleepwalking—it’s gotten her out of a few spots of trouble before. She closes her eyes and waits, tries to smooth her face into something impassive—and then there’s a hand in hers, cold and soft. Her eyes fly open and she sees the faint outline of a girl before they both transfer, just as the deputy rounds the corner.

Pippa blinks, startled to be in the corridor outside the library. “What—” She shakes her head, clearing away the dizziness.

It’s Hecate.

Hecate Hardbroom, she thinks, though she’s never spoken to her. She’s tried a few times, but the girl is so quiet, always stiff-spined and reserved and never has much to say, except in class. She’s brilliant, always has the right answer, and Pippa has seen her a few times in the library, surrounded by books, but otherwise alone.

Her face splits into a wide smile. “You saved me.” Before she can answer, Pippa frowns. “How did you do that? Transfer, I mean. We aren’t supposed to learn that until we’re 18.”

Hecate shrugs, her shoulders delicate beneath her uniform. “I don’t like not knowing things,” she says, and her voice sounds slightly scratchy, as if from hours of disuse.

Grinning, Pippa nods. “Me too.”

Hecate tilts her head. “Is that why you were in the restricted section after hours?” She sounds...not upset, but a bit judgemental, and Pippa arches an eyebrow.

“So were you.”

Hecate squares her shoulders. “I have _permission_ ,” she says, then clenches her jaw, like she’s said too much, given something away she shouldn’t have, and her eyes flicker away to a point on the wall over Pippa’s shoulder.

But Pippa only grins, and squeezes her hand. “That’s brilliant! Do you think they’d give me permission, too? We could study together.”

Hecate starts, visibly jumping, whether at the words or the pressure against her hand, Pippa isn’t sure. She stares down at their hands with wide eyes, like she hadn’t realized she was still holding on, and quickly pulls away.

Pippa frowns, doesn’t quite understand why it stings, why she misses the chilled press of their palms together so badly.

“I’m not giving you my answers.”

Pippa snorts. “I don’t need your answers. I just thought it might be fun.”

“Fun?” Hecate looks like she’s never heard the word before in her life, and it makes something inside Pippa ache.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling softly.  “Fun.”

“I—” she starts, stops, looks down at her shoes. She says nothing for a long moment, and Pippa waits anxiously, cares more about her answer than she’s never cared before, she thinks, about anything. “You shouldn’t,” she says finally, and it isn’t a no, but it breaks Pippa’s heart all the same.

“Why not?”

Hecate opens her mouth to reply, but there are voices coming from the other end of the hall, and footsteps coming closer, and Pippa holds out her hand.

“Can you—?”

Hecate nods, and Pippa holds on tight, prepared this time for the rush as they vanish.

Except this time, she reappears alone, outside her room, Hecate nowhere to be found. She’s disappointed, a little impressed, and resolved. Hand still tingling, she decides then and there that she’s going to be friends with Hecate Hardbroom.

And not just friends, she knows— _best_ friends. Whether Hecate likes it or not.

 

_ii._

Pippa curls into herself, flinching as the wind rattles the window latch, and squeezes her eyes shut. It’s just weather, she tells herself. Just water and air.

A crack of lightning illuminates the room, and Pippa whimpers, throwing her blanket over her head and burying her face in her knees. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to be afraid—

The bed shifts and Pippa’s eyes fly open, a yelp that dies in her throat when she sees Hecate’s face, peering at her under the blankets.

“Pippa?”

Pippa slams her eyes shut and ducks her head against her knees. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Hecate says nothing, and for a moment, Pippa thinks she’s left. Then the mattress dips, and Hecate slips under the blanket with her, sits cross-legged with a small, glowing orb of light in her hand. Pippa raises her head and blinks, and Hecate smiles gently.

Pippa shudders in relief, sniffling back frustrated tears when Hecate lets the light hover between them and places a hand on Pippa’s shoulder, rubbing back and forth in soothing motions. Pippa leans into the touch, turning her head to press her cheek to her knees as she watches Hecate’s face in the dim light.

“I know it’s silly,” she says. “It’s just rain.”

Hecate scoots closer, wrapping her arm around Pippa’s back and Pippa leans into her, her head on Hecate’s shoulder as she closes her eyes and relishes in the contact.

Hecate isn’t a very tactile person. It’s one of the first things Pippa had learned about her, watching the way she flinches whenever a teacher puts their hand on her shoulder, or someone bumps into her in the halls. She doesn’t do hugs, doesn’t lean into people when she talks or touch their arms or legs like some, and Pippa’s eyes sting as she thinks about Hecate putting her discomfort aside, feels slightly guilty for taking advantage, but she can’t make herself move away.

Thunder vibrates the windows and Pippa buries her face in the crook of Hecate’s neck and tries to calm her racing heart.

Hecate starts speaking, something low and soothing, and though Pippa can’t quite follow it, her voice calms her, sends warmth down her spine that follows the press of Hecate’s hand, sweeping up and down her back.

When she falls silent, Pippa bites her lip, feels her anxiety creep back in, and can’t stop the quiet, helpless, “Can you keep talking?”

There’s a pause, then Hecate clears her throat, says quietly, “Did you hear about Mary Turner’s disguise in potions today?”

Pippa shakes her head. “What did she do?”

“Evidently she mixed up her raven and crow feathers and turned her face green.”

“Well, that’s certainly one way to alter your appearance.”

“Rather fruitless when the point is to _blend in_ ,” Hecate says with a sigh, and Pippa rolls her eyes.

“Is this where you launch into another woeful speech about the decline of the Craft?” she teases, and Hecate sniffs.

“I’m not wrong.”

“You worry too much. They’re only in year two. They’ll be fine.”

“Tell that to Laura Woodbury. She gave herself chickenpox trying to execute a makeup spell.”

Pippa bites down on a laugh to keep from encouraging her. “At least she’s trying?”

“I suppose,” Hecate sighs.

“Have you really never made a mistake with your magic? Ever?”

“Of course I have. I just practice before attempting something as drastic as altering my physical appearance.”

“Practice on what?”

Hecate shrugs. “Frogs, mostly.”

“So you’re telling me there’s a frog out there somewhere with a Hecate Hardbroom inspired makeover?”

Hecate purses her lips to contain a smile. “A mullet, actually.”

Pippa laughs, bringing a hand up to her mouth to muffle the sound, and she can almost feel the smugness radiating off Hecate, and it only makes her laugh harder.

Hecate doesn’t join in, but when Pippa lifts her head, Hecate is watching her, lips curved in a smirk but her eyes are soft and warm, and Pippa sighs, resting her head on Hecate’s shoulder again.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, sighing in the stillness.

It takes her far too long to realize the room’s gone quiet, the wind barely a hush, the frequent claps of thunder vanished.

Pippa frowns, lifting her head.  “Did it stop?”

Hecate shakes her head. “Silencing spell.”

“You can do that?”

Hecate shrugs, eyes flickering away. “My mother taught me.”

“Why?”

Hecate looks up with a frown.

“I just mean, it’s a fairly advanced spell.”

Hecate nods, gaze dropping to her lap as she picks at a thread on her pajamas with her free hand.

“My parents used to argue often,” she says stiffly, lips pursing as she amends, “Well. My father was… vocal. My mother never said much.”

“I’m sorry,” Pippa whispers. “Are they—are they separated?”

Hecate shakes her head faintly, lips drawn in a thin line before she says, “My mother died when I was seven.”

Pippa tries to swallow her gasp, doesn’t quite manage it, and Hecate flinches. “Hiccup—I’m—I’m so sorry,” she whispers, reaching instinctively for Hecate’s hand. “I didn’t realize.”

Hecate shrugs, but when she looks up, her eyes are bright and damp, and Pippa squeezes her hand, relieved when Hecate turns her palm up and laces their fingers together. “It’s alright. I don’t like to talk about it.”

“We don’t have to,” Pippa says quietly. “But if you ever want to… I’m here.”

Hecate’s lips twitch in the barest smile. “I know.”

Pippa tries to smile back, tries not to think of her own mother, to think of Hecate, alone, tries not to think of the way her skin feels warm and faintly flushed whenever Hecate smiles at her, the thrill she gets when Hecate laughs, the look on Hecate’s face sometimes, when she thinks Pippa isn’t paying attention.

She tries not to think about why Hecate’s smile makes her stomach flutter, why her touch, so rare, feels like a gift. She doesn’t know why she loves being the person Hecate opens up to, the person she feels safe enough to laugh with. Doesn't know, not really, but she’s starting to suspect, and it makes her giddy, makes her feel weightless and warm.

And she thinks, so briefly, about kissing her. About closing the distance between them under the blankets, about what her lips might feel like. If they’ll be soft or chapped.

She tucks that thought away as quickly as it surfaces. It’s too much for tonight, maybe too much for tomorrow, so for now, she leans her head back on Hecate’s shoulder and clings to her hand.

“Tell me more about the mullet frog,” she says.

So Hecate does.

 

_iii._

She hasn’t so much as looked at Hecate in months. It’s too hard—she can feel her presence always, even as Hecate slips more and more into shadows as the year progresses—but whenever Pippa does happen to catch a glimpse of Hecate’s face as she scans a crowd, her eyes are always… broken. Like she’s the one in pain. Like she’s the one who was cast aside like she was nothing. Like she has any right to look so haunted. Anger bubbles under Pippa’s skin and she always glowers back, holds her chin high, doesn’t say a word, and watches with a hollow satisfaction every time Hecate winces, or ducks her head, or leaves.

She’s a constant presence, and Pippa can’t escape. She always knows when Hecate is in a room, always knows exactly where she’ll be, can feel Hecate’s gaze on her, sometimes, though she never looks.

She can feel her now, standing two rows back in potions, working alone. She knows Hecate isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to her, her focus firmly on the task at hand, and Pippa hates that it bothers her, that she _wants_ Hecate to look at her, wants her distracted. It isn’t fair that she’s the one who can’t concentrate, the one who spends hours she should be studying staring blankly at lines on the page and wondering where she went wrong.

Clenching her jaw, Pippa tries again to focus on her own potion—a sleeping draught—but she can’t quite tune out the conversation behind her, their mistress’ unsurprised, “Well done, Hecate, as usual.”

Pippa grips her ladle and tries not to yearn for the sound of Hecate’s voice, even the simple, quiet acknowledgement she gives back.

Pippa misses her voice. Misses the even timbre of it, misses her sarcasm and her wit, misses hearing her name, or her nickname, roll off Hecate’s tongue so easily. Misses, horribly, the bright sound of Hecate’s rare laughter. Being the one to make Hecate laugh.

She misses it all and she hates it and it isn’t fair. Half the time she thinks she should just _talk to her_ , should corner her somewhere and demand Hecate tell her why. Why she stopped speaking to her, why she abandoned her, why she did any of it, if it’s making her as miserable as it’s making Pippa. But the stronger, more stubborn part of her wants Hecate to come to her. Wants her apology, her attention, wants her to care enough to try to fix things between them. Because as angry as she is, Pippa knows she’d accept. Knows all it would take from Hecate is a feeble attempt and she’d run back gleefully, and it’s infuriating. She should be stronger. She shouldn’t care so much what one stuck-up, anti-social, emotionally-repressed _Hardbroom_ thinks of her.

The ladle snaps and the cold metal digs into her hand, slices completely through, and Pippa cries out. It’s surprise at first, and then pain, shooting up her arm into her neck and shoulder and her hand is throbbing, and when she looks down there’s blood. So much blood, and everyone is backing away.

Everyone except Hecate, who appears at her side, takes her elbow gently in one hand and cups her injured palm in the other, mindless of the blood. Her touch is so light, so still, and Pippa feels a wave of calm wash over her.

“Dear girl, what _have_ you done,” their mistress says, wincing as she catches sight of the metal sticking out of Pippa’s palm. “Quite nasty, but a quick fix,” she says, smiling reassuringly, reaching for Pippa’s hand.

She doesn’t know why, but she stumbles back, clutching her wrist, says without thinking, “No, I want Hecate.” Their mistress blinks, and she can feel Hecate stiffen at her side, hears the ripple of murmurs around the classroom. “I mean, I want Hecate to do it.”

“I can send you to the infirmary if you like, but Miss Hardbroom is a student. She can’t—”

Hecate clears her throat, eyes flickering briefly to Pippa and then away. “I can, actually,” she says, and Pippa’s shoulders relax. “I’ve done healing spells before.”

She doesn’t know why. Why it’s so important to her that it be Hecate. Knows the nurse—knows their mistress, even—would do a fine job and it isn’t that she doesn’t trust them; she just trusts Hecate more.

She shifts her hand slightly and pain lances through her finger, over her wrist, and she has to bite her lip to keep back another cry. Their mistress finally gives in, and Hecate catches her gaze before reaching for her hand again.

Pippa offers it wordlessly, eyes fixed on Hecate’s face, on her soft eyes, her lips as they move quietly but surely through the spell. It doesn’t take long—she can feel Hecate’s magic, intertwining with her own, feels a tingle take the place of pain, part of the numbing process. She doesn’t feel anything at all when the shard of metal disappears, or when the blood stops, or when the wound on her hand seals itself shut, like it never was.

Everything feels quiet, she can’t hear the rest of the class, the bubbling potions, just her own breathing, slightly unsteady. She can feel Hecate’s palm, cupped under her now healed hand, skin cold and smooth, and drops her gaze between them when Hecate traces her thumb over Pippa’s palm, a soft sweep back and forth. Pippa’s heart catches at the gesture.

“Hiccup,” she whispers, and the moment breaks.

Hecate startles, steps back and drops her hands into fists at her side. She asks to be excused, and promptly vanishes, leaving Pippa with a thundering heart, and the phantom warmth of a magical kiss pressed into her palm.

 

_iv._

They haven't touched since they first reconciled—since that first, and only, all-consuming embrace that made Pippa tremble, made her dash her hands under her eyes to clear her tears before following Hecate into the hall.

Despite countless evenings spent in Hecate’s study or hers, despite dinners and mirror chats and long nights spent talking by the fire, Hecate hasn't made any move to touch her again, and Pippa tries to be respectful of the distance. Tries to understand, but she doesn't, not really, not when Hecate looks at her sometimes with such naked longing in her eyes.

She knows there’s more to this than friendship. Knew the moment Hecate’s hands settled on her back that afternoon, so soft, that what they had—what they've always had—never went away. Only now they're older, and Pippa knows what she wants—she wants Hecate, all of her, only her.

She thinks Hecate wants the same, but she says nothing, keeps her hands to herself, at her sides, or sometimes curled in her lap, like she wants to reach out but doesn't dare.

She’s done the same several times today, moving into Pippa’s space only to quickly retreat, a hand reaching out to settle on Pippa’s elbow to get her attention, to show her something, only to fall away.

She’s taken Hecate to the _Gallery of Fine Art and Witchcraft_ for her birthday. It’s an unassuming building in the middle of London, the door tucked away in an alley, invisible to those who don’t practice magic. Inside is bright and warm, full of paintings and artifacts, installations and photography, and Hecate is enthralled.

Outwardly she looks the same—stiff and composed and a bit derisive—but Pippa can see the wonder in her eyes, the faint smile pulling at her lips as they watch a moving painting of familiars batting around a cordless moon, the awe with which she studies old coins and healing stones and rare, deadly plants secured behind thick glass.

She reads every placard in full, as Pippa suspected she might. Despite Hecate’s protests against art and frivolity, Pippa knows she can’t resist a well-executed display of Craft. She stands in front of a writhing sculpture of Medusa for a good ten minutes, eyes wide, and Pippa can’t help bumping her shoulder with a teasing, “See? There are _some_ benefits to playing with clay.”

Hecate scoffs— “Not if Miss Mould has anything to say about it”—but doesn’t tear her gaze away from the sculpture, and Pippa has to practically shove her into the next room.

There are portraits of famous witches, and Pippa watches Hecate with what she’s certain is a lovesick expression as she elaborates on their stories, and barely holds back her laughter at Hecate’s sarcastic quips about the wizards glaring out at them from their gold frames.

She barely pays attention to most of the artwork, too busy staring at Hecate, delighting in the way her shoulders have relaxed, the way her smiles become more frequent, the delight in her eyes. She’s stunning, always, but even more so like this—something close to happy.

It’s everything Pippa can do not to reach out, to touch her arm or her back, her hand always hovering, always wanting. She sees the same desire reflected back at her, and she wishes, so much sometimes it winds her, that she could somehow convey just how much she wants her. Without scaring her, without making her run—she wishes she could tell her that every time Hecate reaches for her, she wants to be touched. Wants Hecate’s hand on her arm, her soft hugs, her kisses.

Wants all of her, whether they’re miles apart or close together, as they are now, standing in front of a painting of Morgan le Fey, so lifelike Pippa almost expects her to step out of the frame.

“I’ve never been much for art,” Hecate says quietly, “But I have to admit, it’s quite…beautiful.”

Pippa nods, but she doesn’t really see it. Doesn’t see anything except the ghost of a smile on Hecate’s face, the curve of her jaw, the wisps of hair around her ear. “Yes, it is.”

Hecate shifts, eyes flickering over the painting. “You aren't looking at it,” she says haltingly, part question, and Pippa hears the weak tremble in her voice, and she smiles gently.

“No,” she murmurs, “I’m not.”

Hecate swallows and flushes faintly, ducking her head. “I—” she starts, hesitates, seems to second guess herself. She shakes her head slightly, smile slipping from her face, and Pippa can’t bear it.

Stepping closer, she slides her hand into Hecate’s, for the first time in thirty years. Her hands are still cold, still soft, and Pippa’s eyes sting at how familiar it feels - how right. Like coming home to a warm fire, coming out of the cold.

Pippa smiles, squeezing slightly when Hecate startles at the contact, eyes dropping between them, then up to Pippa’s face, unsure.

“I’d rather look at someone else,” Pippa says, holding her gaze on Hecate, keeps her expression open and soft, tries, so hard, to say what she feels without words.

And for the first time, Hecate seems to hear her.

Her lips part and her eyes widen at the slow, careful brush of Pippa’s thumb over her skin, and for a moment, she doesn’t look like she’s breathing; then her fingers curl around Pippa’s and she smiles, a shy, sweet thing that makes Pippa’s heart beat double-time.

She says nothing, says everything, with the way she leans slightly into Pippa’s space, the flush on her cheeks, the way she doesn’t, for the rest of the afternoon, let go of Pippa’s hand.

 

_v._

Hecate pulls back, breathing heavy, her hands still gentle on Pippa’s cheeks, lips swollen and eyes wide.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” she asks, again, and Pippa nods, cups the back of Hecate’s head and draws her close, forehead to forehead.

“I want you,” she says, clear and low, so there can be no mistaking, no confusion or miscommunication. “Always.”

Hecate inhales shakily, swallows tightly, her hand falling to Pippa’s shoulder, down her breastbone, settling at the tie in Pippa’s robe.

“May I?”

Pippa nods, doesn't trust herself to speak as Hecate pushes the fleece from her shoulders and vanishes it, fingers slipping beneath her camisole. She meets Pippa’s gaze, a question, and Pippa raises her arms, lets Hecate pull the silk over her head, watches it disappear, watches Hecate’s face, her hands as they tremble against Pippa’s skin.

Her touch is so light Pippa can barely feel it at first, and she closes her eyes, leaning into Hecate’s hands, let's her own skim up Hecate’s ribs, over her breasts, her shoulders, her back. She’s still in her dress, hair up, only her shoes removed, and that won't do. She wants to feel her, wants to touch every inch of her.

“Take this off,” she murmurs, half a statement, half question, but Hecate obliges, barely a twitch of her fingers and the dress is gone, and Pippa wasted no time in undoing her bra, throwing it somewhere far away.

She whimpers at the contact, skin on skin, and hauls Hecate closer, almost into her lap, runs her hands over her back, her shoulders. She kisses her, because she can't not kiss her and Hecate seems to feel the same, one hand tangling in Pippa’s hair as she pushes her backwards onto the bed, settling over her, bodies pressed together.

She kisses her way across Pippa’s collar bone, along her shoulder, down one arm, then the other. She kisses the palm of her hand, where a wound should be.

She touches her with so much reverence, so much love, Pippa can feel it like a breathing thing between them, sweet and alive. Tender in a way Hecate so often isn't, _is_ , beneath it all, and Pippa feels her eyes sting at the knowledge that this Hecate is _hers,_ and hers alone. Her soft kisses, her steady hands, her hair wild around her head.

Kissing a trail down between her breasts, over her stomach, Hecate’s fingers curl in the waistband of her pajamas, and she looks up, a question in her eyes.

Pippa arches her hips, lets Hecate pull everything away, but she doesn't feel exposed. Doesn't feel vulnerable under Hecate’s soft eyes; only wanted. Adored.

“You're beautiful,” Hecate murmurs, and Pippa feels beautiful. Feels herself crack in two and then mend under Hecate’s hands, her mouth as she works her way over Pippa’s body, listens for the hitches in Pippa’s breathing, her quiet moans.

She guides Pippa’s hand into her hair, lets her curl her fingers gently in the strands. “Show me what you like,” she says, her voice so low, and Pippa shudders, at her words, the look in her eyes, the gentle way she ducks her head and presses a first kiss between Pippa’s thighs.

It’s all she can do not to cant her hips, a weak cry stifled, and she reaches blindly with her free hand for Hecate’s shoulder, her cheek, some form of grounding contact.

Hecate seems to know, seems to understand, and tangles their fingers, palms pressed together and Pippa breathes a shaky sigh of relief, of want.

“Please,” she murmurs, though she doesn't quite know what she's asking for, not sure how much more she can stand; but Hecate takes it as permission, uses her free hand to guide Pippa’s leg over her shoulder and the sight alone, Hecate between her thighs, her own hand buried in her dark hair, is almost enough to tip her over the edge.

Pippa closes her eyes, gives herself over to the press of Hecate’s tongue, her thumb as it brushes over the crease of Pippa’s thigh, the whisper of Hecate’s hair over her hips and legs and it's too much, and not enough, and everything all at once and she comes with Hecate’s name on her lips.

She floats, feels weightless and warm, tugs Hecate up to kiss her, to wrap her arm around Hecate’s waist, sliding her hand up her spine, into her hair at the nape of her neck.

“I love you,” Pippa whispers, feels Hecate’s breath ghost over her cheek as she exhales sharply.

Lifting their still clasped hands, Hecate kisses her knuckles, so soft.

 


End file.
